


Inside and Out

by dramady, Falco



Category: Terminator Salvation (2009), Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-04
Updated: 2010-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramady/pseuds/dramady, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falco/pseuds/Falco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is so much shit that John Connor can't trust, but he's going to trust this. For better or worse.</p><p>(set in the same 'verse as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/47515">I'll Get You There</a>. <b>Co-written with FalcoConlon</b>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside and Out

Marcus wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten here. What had started as a casual recollection of events that felt like a dream to his human mind, had ended with him on his back in the surgery bay, the door locked behind them. The metal of the operating table was cold on his bare back and he could feel the goose bumps rising on his skin. The day had been long, longer in that John had gotten in another fight with Kate, eventually arriving at Marcus' door looking for a fight as much as he was a fuck. But as usual, they'd ended up oddly tender, careful with each other in a way that Marcus had only ever felt with Allison.

But that was all difficult to focus on when he was lying prone under a bright light. Sneaking in here with Connor had been strange, but appropriate for what they were doing. Marcus took a deep breath and closed his eyes. _I wanted you then_.

He had alcohol and sharp blades and he really shouldn't have been doing this. This is what John told himself as he watched his hands and moved to stand over Marcus. He wasn't a surgeon. But he wanted to know what was inside. He needed to know. It wasn't all for the most upright reasons, but he wanted to see. He picked up the blade. "We don't have to do this."

"You want to," Marcus said, turning his head and opening his eyes to look up at his sometimes lover. "It's all right."

This was so many kinds of wrong. Kate's lab, locked door, John with a blade. He set the edge against Marcus's chest and pressed. Blood came up to meet as he slid it down. It was like cutting butter the blade was so sharp. He cleared his throat as he stopped, bringing gauze down on the incision before widening it. "That hurts, I bet."

Yeah. It hurt. Marcus sent John a look. "You want it to hurt, Connor?"

"I don't get off on you being in pain, Wright." Said again, tiredly. Two more cuts and there was a way then, to push the flesh away and reveal the Coltan chest plate. He touched it gently, almost reverently.

"You just get off on seeing my insides," he said, not without affection, "but we already knew that one."

"You make it sound so dirty," John answered with a half-grin. "I'm going to ..." He bent down, getting a flashlight, to peer under the breastplate. His breath caught. A human heart, real and beating. And there was the nuclear power source. Easy. Easy. The risk of infection was high. He pulled the flesh back over the human heart side. "This is how you were killed. Hitting here."

"Yeah, I remember." Marcus squeezed his eyes shut tight. "I remember dying." Both times. "Careful of it, yeah?" He swallowed hard. "Shit, I can feel the air..." His _heart_ was cold.

"I'm careful. I don't have any desire to kill you." Said quietly, carefully. "You wanted to know what was inside you. Remember?" He touched the Coltan again.

"So what do you see?" he asked, shivering once.

"I see ... " John angled the flashlight. "Metal where there should be bone and then your organs. The wiring runs along the Coltan. I have no fucking clue how they did that and brought you back. No fucking clue at all." There was awe in his voice.

"I wouldn't know." Marcus reached up to wipe at his forehead where he was sweating. "Anything else?"

"If I were a surgeon I could tell you, but you look like a man who got a bone transplant and a batter back up to me." John pulled the skin closed again. "You want me to try to sew you up, or are you healing on your own?" He was trying to ignore his erection. Not the time, nor the place.

"You'll have to sew it," he said, "I can't heal that." Too big. Too gaping. And don't think you can hide the erection, John. Marcus closed his eyes again, smirking.

"Shut up." John rolled his eyes, reaching for the curved needle and thread. He was no surgeon, but he could sew up skin. Any soldier worth his weight could do that. He started to sew. A needle pulling thread.

"Far, a long long way to go." His brow arched. C'mon, Wright. Sing along.

Marcus turned his head to look up at him incredulously. "Actually, _Maria_, I'm not concentrating on not thinking about the anesthetic free stitching you're doing right now, so it'll have to be a chorus of one."

"Aww. Poor baby." John's smirk gradually faded as he concentrated on what he was doing. "Were you hoping I'd find something particular?"

"You confirmed what I already knew," he said, shrugging carefully. So maybe he was a little disappointed that John hadn't found something revolutionary.

"I don't know how they did it," John said again. "I don't ... they made sure everything still worked. I ... I gotta say. That's impressive. That you still eat and shit and ... fuck. That's ... that's ... " He shook his head.

"Miraculous," he said dryly, "and here I was thinking dead was dead." He reached out and dragged a hand down John's side. "Apparently not."

"Defintely not. All hail Skynet. They can bring people back from the dead. You're the Bionic Man." John smiled at the touch. "Tell me if you want me to stop and take a break."

"I'm fine." His hand moved back up his side, blue eyes trained on him. "What is it, John. Why does it affect you like this?"

"I don't know." They'd talked about this before and John still didn't know. "Maybe I'm a freak." His eyes flick to Marcus's and away again.

"People get turned on by weirder shit, trust me." The hand came to a stop on his hip.

It was hot, even through the material of John's pants. "Oh yeah?" To make conversation. "Like what? What could be weirder than getting turned on by someone having an artificial skeleton, powersource and neural net?"

Marcus chuckled, the sound a bit strained as he struggled to contain the pain of the raw stitches. "At least it ain't dogs, man. I honestly once met a man who was into bestiality. _That_ is fucked up."

"Uh, that's gross." John even had to pause with that image, to shake it free. "That is ... gross." And yes, John Connor, leader of the Resistance could say 'gross.' "I'm still right up there, I'm thinking."

"It's weird, but it's not fucked up," Marcus said, shaking his head.

"And the difference is?"

"Not like you're chaining me down and cutting me open when I don't want it," he said, lifting his eyebrow, "you're not hurting anyone."

"Don't give me any ideas." Another flickered glance and John was nearly done. "You know how I like to get you in chains."

Marcus laughed, then winced. "Don't I. Shit. I need a drink." Even if real alcohol was a pipe dream these days.

No real alcohol, but grain alcohol that was guaranteed to rot your gut; they had plenty of that. John finished stitching him up. It nearly looked like a cross on Marcus's chest and he ran his finger down it. _Bless me, father, for I have sinned. We need sanctuary_. Different memories, melding together. To John, Catholic churches meant sanctuary, not salvation. "I can get you some, but that might kill you."

"Lethal injection and a metal fist to the chest couldn't do it, Connor, don't think your weak ass alcohol could either." He was pushing up carefully, still wincing, but he relished the pain.

"Those are fighting words, Wright." John stretched out an arm to help Marcus sit up, then stand. "I'm tempted to take advantage of you in your weakened state. I think that makes me a bastard."

He laughed loudly in return, leaning his hips back against the table so he could pull his shirt back on. "It might, but it would also make you a sexually satisfied bastard." The worst kind.

"This is true." John watched him dress, his own arms crossing over his chest. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," he said, nodding and tipping his head up to look at the other man once he'd gotten the shirt back on. "Are _you_ all right?"

"I'll live." But maybe John was a little flushed, with both embarrassment and arousal. "We should go."

"Yeah," he said, eyes leveling with the man's crotch. Marcus smirked. "Looks like."

"See something you like?" John asked, wry as he unlocked the door, holding it open for Marcus to go first. He knew that he saw something he liked. Wanted.

"What a stupid question," Marcus said easily as he went by him, holding himself carefully, but without wincing. By the next morning, it will have been as though he'd never been cut into at all.

"Forgive me," John laughed as he walked with Marcus down one hall, then another. People stood aside as they passed, always. Back to his private quarters, the ones that he and Kate rarely shared anymore.

"Forgiven," he said easily, slipping through the door and into his room. Marcus turned, smirking still, although it was more wry than smug. "Think people have figured it out yet?"

"Figured what out?" One door opened, shut, a lock twisted. He had a bed in his office, food and water; he handed Marcus a canteen. "You and me?"

"Yeah, you and me." Marcus sat on the bed and took a sip of water, watching John carefully.

"I think a lot of people have a lot of other things on their minds." John shrugged, leaning against his desk. "More than if you and I are doing anything 'inappropriate,' anyway."

"Inappropriate," he said, wide eyed and innocent, "I don't know what you could be talking about."

"Uh-huh." Innocent. Yeah right. It was funny more than anything else. Marcus Wright trying to look innocent. John arched both brows at him. "That look on you? Fails."

Marcus set the canteen down and extended one hand to him. "C'mere."

Drawn as if to a flame, John moved, covering the small distance between them, until he was standing above him. "Are we about to do something inappropriate?"

"I think we might be," he said, sliding both hands up his sides, tugging John until he was standing between his legs.

"Tsk. Defiling John Connor." All John had to do was bend down, find Marcus's mouth with his. Kiss him, eyes falling shut.

+++++++++

Days went by. Marcus had gone out on a simple perimeter walk, a short patrol, and he hadn't come back. Some whispered that he'd gone back to his skynet masters, to tell them where the base was. Many people urged John to give the order to pack up and leave. They had to get out before the traitor Marcus Wright returned to kill them all. But the days went by, three nights and the more time that passed, the more on edge John got.

Most of the camp was packed up, with orders to go back to base. John stayed. And he searched, as safely as he could. It was too much like Cameron disappearing. Too much deja-vu. He had a few bruises on his knuckles for hitting things in his frustration.

(Whenever someone was lost, John blamed himself. Reasonable or not, he did. Blame Derek : _We all die for you_. He mourned deaths, he worked to search for the missing. But when it was Marcus, there was an edge to what he was doing that had those closest to him alarmed. They attempted to get him to return. He wouldn't. They told him his time would be better spent doing something else. He didn't listen to them. Perhaps it was there when the whispers began. Or later. Not that it mattered.)

The fourth night was nearing when Marcus reappeared, battered, bloody, shot through with holes. He was alone and almost bled dry, disoriented. The few scouts who had stayed with John walked him into the well hidden camp, or what remained of it, rifles raised, eyes hard and suspicious. Marcus didn't say a word, lips cracked and eyes bloodshot.

"Jesus Fucking Christ." Eyes searching his face, John pulled Marcus into a chair. "What the fuck happened to you?!" He waved the scouts away. Back. Farther. Farther. "Wright, talk to me." He angled his flashlight to see more.

"I-..." Marcus blinked away at the light. "I don't know. They..." he put a hand up to block the flashlight. "Connor. I just need...I'm tired." Still clothed, but jacketless, unarmed. He swallowed a scratched throat, trying to look down at himself as if he'd be able to tell what had happened. "I didn't see what happened."

Dropping the flashlight, John rested his weight on his hands, watching him, frowning. His cot was just a few feet away and he gestured to it. "Skynet?"

"I don't know." He was still dazed and he looked dully down at the cot, but couldn't manage to get to his feet. "I think..." he blinked stupidly, "I think I need blood."

"Christ." They were in the middle of nowhere, with a small group of men. "What type are you?"

"A positive," he said, a fact he hadn't know until the machine had been introduced to his mind. "John...you can't be here. It's not safe--"

"I'm not leaving you." Before Marcus could even finish. "I'm AB negative" Which meant he couldn't donate. "I'll ask the men. Just lie down." He reached for Marcus, moving to help him up.

Marcus pushed to his feet and his vision went black for a moment and he stumbled, his weight coming down on the other man. This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind for these past few days, losing time, waking up bloody and crumpled a few miles of camp as though he'd been mugged.

"Fuck, lie down." John got him onto the cot with the order not to move. Then he went to the door to get his men's attention.

There was one man who was A positive. And if he'd been able to refuse the order, he would've but John Connor didn't give him the choice.

It was probably unsafe, definitely unsanitary, the patchwork IV that connected the two men, but John stood between them. This reminded him of Derek.

He came too about ten minutes later, more color in his face. The machine was already repairing him, he could feel it working. He could feel the flesh regenerating, closing over strange lesions and the occasional bullet hole. "Connor..." his voice was hoarse, blinking painfully at the ceiling. The man donating the blood looked at Connor, glaring. _Can I go_?

He was dismissed, a piece of cloth over the puncture wound. Kate would have John's balls if she knew. He went over to sit on the edge of the cot, as he felt for Marcus's pulse in his neck. "Yeah?"

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he said, shaking his head, "I don't know what happened. They could have done anything." It wasn't _safe_.

"You don't have a chip to check," John told him, shrugging, even as he frowned. "I don't know how to test you. You don't know what happened." He put a hand up to stifle any proclamations. "But I am not leaving you, Wright. So you can shut the fuck up about that."

Marcus glared at him hard over his hand. He was being an idiot. "So what," he said, the words muffled by the hand, "what are you gonna do?"

"I'm going to stay here with you and see what happens." What else would he do? John met his gaze head on, searching for anything, any sign, any clue. "We'll wait and see. I won't take you back to base, yet, but if they did something to you, we'll know soon enough." He paused, before going on. "Do you want to kill me, Marcus?"

"I don't, _know_, Connor," he said shaking his head, "I said no to that last time, but look where that got us."

"Where did it get us. You didn't try to kill me then." He didn't know?! How could Marcus not know. John caught his chin, forcing him to look at him. "Do you want to kill me."

"I don't know!" he said, tugging his head away, a bit frantic, "I don't know what's in me. I don't know what's in my head! I don't know what they did to me!" He was getting more and more agitated, angry.

"Marcus, calm down!" John tried to pin his arms. "You're in no shape to do this. Calm down and let your body heal." A human man would be dead from these wounds; they both knew that. "Calm. Down."

"You're. Not. Safe," he barked, still pushing up. "I won't hurt you, John! I won't do it!" It would break him.

"What do you want me to do, Wright?!" John shouted back. "Lock you in here?! Like some kind of rabid dog?!"

"Yes," he hissed, catching him by the arms. "Leave me here."

"Goddamnit, Wright! I have been fucking worried sick about you!" John stood and stalked to the other end of the room. "Is that what you think is best?!"

He collapsed back on the cot, breathing hard, closing his eyes. "I can't afford to trust myself."

"Christ." Scrubbing over his face, John closed his eyes for a second. "Fine," he finally mutters. "But I'll be right outside the door."

"John..." he said plaintively, "I just don't want to hurt you."

"I don't want you to either, Marcus." John's smile was small, rueful, and gone in a flash. He moved around the space, grabbing his guns and ammo, leaving nothing in case Marcus did do ... something. "If you need me," he said, turning to look back at his -- at the other man. "Call."

Marcus curled onto his side, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. There was a blank hole in his mind. He honestly couldn't remember what had happened and he hated it. What was he supposed to do?

Outside the door, John waved his men away and slid to the floor, his guns on his lap. He wasn't tired. He turned his head to listen for any sound.

++++++

Marcus spent most of his time on patrol. He'd never been bothered by the stares before now, but they'd never been quite so vitriolic. He could feel the mistrust wherever he went, and it wouldn't have mattered except that he felt the same way. A week had gone by since he'd disappeared and there had been nothing, no sign of anything wrong. The assumption was that he'd simply gotten in a fight, been knocked in the head too much and had lost a patch of memory, but Marcus considered it wishful thinking on John's part. He'd been distant from the man since coming back, afraid to spend nights with him, afraid to settle back into his usual position of constant shadow and sometimes bodyguard.

He sat outside, concealed under an outcropping of rubble, watching the perimeter and the skies, messing with his rifle, and trying to think of excuses for not going back inside.

"Wright." John announced himself. Best way not to get his head blown off, he'd found. "What are you doing?"

"Watching the line," he said, glancing up briefly, then looking away again.

"Bullshit." John came up to crouch next to him. "Don't you think if you were going to kill me, you would've done it by now?"

"I wasn't even supposed to kill you last time," he said, "I was just supposed to lead you into a trap."

"Oh, right." John looked out over the barricade. "Feeling the urge to lead me away, Wright?"

"No," he said sharply, "but I didn't then, either. I don't understand why you aren't taking this more seriously."

"Because I don't believe you want to hurt me! Maybe I'm a fool," John snapped, glaring at him and away. "Or maybe I remember what you said back in the village. Do you remember?!"

Marcus clenched his jaw and looked away. It had nothing to do with what he wanted. He'd never wanted to hurt John, but he had in the past without even realizing what he was doing.

John sat, looking over at the decimated landscape. He had no intention of leaving and his body language made that clear.

After a long moment he took a deep breath and shifted sideways until he could rest his head on John's shoulder. He didn't understand why this man was still here, why he was risking himself like this, but he was and Marcus couldn't begrudge him that.

His hand came up to cup Marcus's cheek. "It'll be all right," he said quietly.

Marcus tipped his head to catch John's lips, tugging gently, the rifle at his side forgotten for a moment. John was a warm, comfortable presence. Even his smell was reassuring. He made a soft murmuring sound against his mouth. It was rarely a good idea to do this in any kind of public space, but he couldn't help himself.

It was a bad idea. But it was dark. And John had missed Marcus, in a lot of ways. He'd just ... missed his presence. He opened his mouth, kissing back, hands staying there, against his thighs, just mouths touching.

Marcus' hand had settled on John's abdomen and the kiss remained soft. He wasn't about to pull away. The touch was too appealing. Marcus ran his tongue along the other man's upper lip, tasting him briefly and enjoying the quiet.

"Marcus." They could go inside. John pulled away, standing, half-turning. Marcus should follow. They could spread blankets on the floor.

He groaned briefly, already missing his mouth. But he pushed to his feet, rifle swinging over his shoulder. He wanted skin, he wanted John's hands, his mouth. It always came over him suddenly, this need, and it was alarming each time. Made it hard to take his eyes off the other man, but he never resisted. It was just how it was.

Back in the camp, John could feel eyes on them. He ignored it, heading for his tent, feeling Marcus's gaze on his shoulders. Back, pushing the canvas out of the way so that Marcus could come in.

"We're obvious," he said, standing the rifle in the corner, "it's dangerous, Connor."

"Ask me if I care, Wright." John pulled the canvas closed behind himself.

He grabbed him by the back of the neck, tugging John into another slow kiss. He kept his breathing slow, tipping his head to kiss him as if feeding at his mouth.

Kissing back just as fervently, John pulled at Marcus's clothes, pushing them off and away. The need made him hot. "I missed you," he heard himself say.

"I'm sorry," came in return as they both busied themselves shucking clothing. Marcus found himself pushed up against the bed and he fell back, pants undone and shirt off.

He could push material back, away, and John could run his hand along healed, warm skin, down lower, hand wrapping around Marcus's cock, fist tight as he stroked. He bit kisses at Marcus's mouth. Greedy. Taking.

He moaned a bit helplessly against John's mouth, lifting his hips up into the man's hand. His hand curled tight at the back of his head, panting wantonly into his mouth. "Blow me," he murmured, "fuck, Connor. I want your mouth."

Not something they did often. John's gaze flicked to his face and back down, and he nodded. John Connor knelt, pushing Marcus's legs apart and bending down to lick at the slit of his cock.

Marcus gave a satisfied grunt and curled his fingers tight against the back of John's head, his own chin falling to his chest as he watched the other man. "Incredible," he said, voice low and rough.

If anyone saw them, things would be changed irrevocably. Somehow, that made it that much hotter, that much more illicit. John looked up at Marcus through his lashes. Was this what Marcus wanted? John could give this to him.

He bit his lip, almost smiling in response to the look John was giving him. The way he looked with his lips wrapped around his cock. Marcus moaned softly, shifting on the cot and struggling to keep quiet.

Some things were easy to remember. John learned how to do this when he was sixteen and it came back, all of it. How to open his throat, let his tongue run along Marcus's length as he pulled back, then he'd push back own, nearly gagging as he tried to take it all in.

Marcus kept his breathing easy, eyes going a dark blue as the heat in his gut coiled tighter. He moaned the other man's name before clenching his jaw shut tight, not wanting to draw any more attention than they already had. It was good. Christ it was good.

It was good. Marcus tasted dark, musky. John moaned a little as he nearly gagged. His own cock was hard between his legs and he pressed the heel of his hand against it, moaning again.

"You want me to fuck you?" he asked breathlessly, almost a whisper. And it was a real question.

And the very real answer was yes. John groaned again, hand wrapping around the base of Marcus's cock to jerk him off in time with his mouth, determined to bring him right to the edge.

He was doing a good job of it. Marcus' head dropped back as he struggled to keep his hips still. Metal fingers clutched at the edge of the cot, flexing and curling. "John..." he breathed, almost whining with need.

With a huffed-out breath, John leaned back, stroking him slowly with a little bit of a twist around the head like he knew Marcus liked. His lips felt numb. "Yeah?"

"You'll make me come," he said, smiling darkly, "and as much as I'd enjoy that..."

Marcus's smile was met by John's smirk. "So do something about it, Wright."

Marcus pushed to his feet, pants hanging off his hips and cock still hard against his stomach. "Get up."

Rocking back on his heels, John got to his feet, his erection tenting his pants. He arched a brow. Marcus was in charge here.

"Your knees?" he asked no one in particular as he stepped closer, hands sliding up John's throat to cradle his head, "on your back?" He leaned in to kiss him warmly, tugging at his lip. He seemed to be attempting to decide, but also doing a good job of distracting himself.

The kiss was hot and deep and it was one of the only things capable of making John's knees weak. He didn't care how it happened. He just wanted to feel it. The power Marcus held over him should've frightened him.

If he'd voiced that out loud, Marcus would have disagreed. If Marcus held any power, it was returned tenfold. He was devoted in a way he never had been before, and devoted was really the only word for it. Marcus eased him back to the cot. He wanted to be able to see John's face, to kiss him, to take his time. He was so heated already, and John's eyes were so dark and liquid. He was breathing slowly into the kiss as they both laid down, Marcus divesting himself of his boots and pants before helping John do the same.

There was a romance to it. Out of place, not belonging on the battlefield. But John drank it up like water, clean and clear. He lay back, wrapping his arms and legs around Marcus's neck and hips, holding on, and kissing back. The gentleness threatened to unman him. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispers, head shaking. "I thought I'd lost you and I _hated_ it."

"Not lost yet, Connor," he said in an equally quiet tone. He smoothed a hand over his head, dropping the occasional kiss on his lips as he shifted, pressing hard, but without urgency, against John's ass.

His breath caught. No prep? John groaned, body tightening. That didn't stop him from pulling his legs higher up his chest. More. God. More. Not lost ever. He skated his hands down Marcus's back, along the metal of his spine.

"All right?" he asked, moving slowly, still panting.

The pain was searing; it felt like John was being torn. But he nodded. He would feel it. Would feel it as he walked and move. He nodded, Marcus's face cupped in his hands.

He pushed forward until he was hilt deep, unable to break the staring contest they seemed to have going. Marcus shifted so John's legs were hooked over his arms before letting his weight come down on the other man. All it took was a slow lift of his hips to withdraw, then another solid push forward, keeping him close to kiss him again.

"Christ," John hissed out. His head fell back, chin up. Even if his eyes were slit, he didn't look away. There was a mingling of pleasure and pain. His erection was flagging, but he didn't attribute much to that; it'd come back. "Fuck," he whispered. "Marcus."

Marcus waited until he could feel the other man adjusting around him. He lifted a hand, spit into it, and when he withdrew again, slicked himself a bit. His third thrust was smoother, less friction, and he smiled against John's throat.

Hot and tight and vicious, the pleasure was there, though, as it always was. Onto an elbow (no mean feat on a fucking cot), he sought Marcus's mouth, panting there, tasting his tongue. And sure enough, he was getting hard again.

"Nng, _John_..." the kiss made him shudder and it was only until after he'd calmed himself that he could start a rhythm into him. Marcus wrapped an arm around his torso, holding him up a bit so their mouths could meet.

When he'd been sixteen, Derek had moved John much the same way. It was a good memory; familiar. Maybe John was smiling a little bit into Marcus's mouth, one arm used in holding himself up, the other looped around his neck. "Move, Marcus," he whispers. "Fuck me."

He obliged, moving quickly, the roll of his hips smooth and economic. God, it felt incredible. He didn't want to pull away, but each thrust was hard enough that the slap of skin on skin was audible. He panted against his mouth, muscle shifting and cording.

It was audible and hard enough to make the metal of the cot creak. If the men outside hadn't suspected before, they knew now (either that, or John was a vigorous wanker. The idea made John smile around his gasps). "Fuck." He needed more friction on his cock, trying to rock his hips to get it.

"Not yet," he murmured, his hand tightening on John's side, fingers digging into skin, his other pushed into the cot to support himself over the other man.

"Not yet," John answered, breath gasped. "Fuck, you're going to kill me like this, aren't you?" Not that he was complaining. Far from.

The joke actually unsettled him for a moment, but Marcus kept moving, reining his strength back as best he could until he was hover on the edge, panting hard, trembling. "I want to taste you," he moaned, "don't come yet."

"Fuck." But John couldn't deny Marcus anything. He nodded, muscles corded tight. He was so _close_. His hands he pressed to the other man's sides, helping him, feeling him move.

Marcus came with a sharp cry, wrapping his arms around the other man as he pulled him tight, lazily thrusting up into the willing body. He gasped against his throat, eyes shut against the wash of heat.

_Fuck_. John groaned, his whole body feeling too tight, too sensitive. So close. _I want to taste you_. Fuck. His arms were wrapped tight around Marcus's neck and shoulders.

Marcus was already pulling away, working down John's body, mouth leaving a wet trail as he went. He smelled incredible, sweat and sex and the constant dust from outside. He didn't hesitate before covering the head of John's cock with his mouth, just sucking softly.

It might've been gentle, but it was enough to have John struggling for control, hands cradling Marcus's head as he fought not to thrust. His toes were curling and his body felt impossibly tight. "Fuck. Marcus-!" A low, tight plea.

He really enjoyed the way his name sounded when spoken like that. Marcus took him a bit deeper before starting to bob his head slowly, sliding on and off, still sucking. John's hands felt incredible, tight against his head, and Marcus dragged his own up the man's thighs.

Head back, eyes stil slitted so he could watch, John panted for breath, teeth gritted until he couldn't hold it back any longer, a groan hitching from his chest as he felt his cock jerk against Marcus's tongue. "Fuck, yes."

He moaned, sucking hard and sharply, wanting to feel him spill over his tongue. Marcus was panting around his cock, hands tightening on his hips.

"Christ," John gasped out, hips still rocking just a little bit as the aftershocks moved through him for long minutes that felt timeless.

When he finally loosened his grip, it was to trail nearly-numb fingertips down Marcus's face, to feel where they were still attached, his eyes warm.

Marcus kept him in his mouth, sucking gently at the soft flesh. Finally, after a long minute, he settled back, resting his head on John's abdomen, licking his lips.

Hands that were calloused and scarred ran gently over Marcus's head, his hair, the back of his neck. "We're all right, Marcus," he said to himself, to the other man. He had to believe that. There was so much shit in this world that couldn't be trusted that John needed to trust _something_. So he'd trust this.

For better or worse.


End file.
